Rough Trade (24 page)

With the two-hour time difference it was still much too early to call the coast. Besides, Ken’s cover sheet indicated that he and Jeff were heading out for a round of golf with the governor bright and early. He said he’d call me when this important networking had been concluded to go through any concerns I might have about the deal.

I turned my attention to the fax. Despite its bulk—the twenty-eight-page agreement had more than thirty pages of exhibits and side letters—it represented only the bare bones of the agreement. Even so, it was evident after wading through it that the terms were as good as any sports team owner was going to get. In order to bring football back to La-La Land the State of California was prepared to spend over $250 million. The Memorandum called for the construction of a seventy-thousand-seat, open-air stadium dedicated solely to football, the acquisition of land for a practice facility, a new training complex, and a lump sum payment to defray the costs of relocation and litigation.

It was less than the team would have netted if Beau were still alive, but it was still preferable to playing in the rusted-out hulk of a stadium where they played now or next to a shopping mall in Wauwatosa. Right now, it was the best answer to Jeff’s problems—provided he didn’t find himself on trial for his father’s murder first.

I was surprised when the switchboard put a call through for me. Usually Sundays were a respite from that kind of interruption. Besides, few people knew the firm’s weekend number. I suddenly found my heart beating fast in the absurd hope that it was Stephen. Needless to say I was disappointed to find Detective Eiben of the Milwaukee Police Department on the other end of the line.

“Where’s your client?” he asked after the most perfunctory exchange of greetings.

“Which one?” I countered disingenuously.

“Don’t even think about playing games with me. You fucking well know which one I mean. Jeffrey Rendell. We’ve been calling his house and there’s no answer.”

“Why are you looking for him?” I asked. There was something about his tone that put my hackles up. “Because I have a warrant for his arrest.”

“Really?” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “For what crime?”

“Shoplifting,” he snorted. “What the hell do you think? We want him for the murder of his father.”

“Don’t you think you’re rushing into this?” I inquired, less than pleased by this new development and thinking fast. “After all, you’re going to look pretty stupid if it turns out that he didn’t do it.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about how I’m going to look and you just tell me where he is?”

“He’s in Los Angeles on business.”

“What about his wife? Is she with him?”

“No. She’s in Chicago with me. She and I are spending the weekend at my parents’ house.”

“When the cat’s away, the mice will play, is that it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, you’re not doing yourself any favors by hustling the husband out of town. No judge is going to grant him bail after he knowingly attempted to flee the state.”

“Oh, come on,” I shot back. “No matter what you think he did or did not do, Jeffrey Rendell is not some crackhead that you’re trying to make for a back-alley shooting. He’s the owner of a National Football League franchise, and he’s in L.A. on team business.”

“Is he coming back, or am I going to have to get an extradition order?”

Suddenly I’d had enough of his tough-guy routine. My whole body still ached from my encounter with the Jester, and I was in no mood to put up with this kind of bullshit.

“You’d better go ahead and get an extradition order,” I said, hoping that when I hired a criminal attorney for Jeff he wouldn’t skin me alive when he found out what I’d done. “My client was originally scheduled to return to Milwaukee tomorrow, but I’m afraid that under the circumstances I’m going to have to advise him to remain out of state.”

“I don’t care who you think you are,” spat the detective angrily. “If you’re helping your client avoid arrest, I will have you behind bars faster than—”

“I don’t want him coming back to Milwaukee because your department can’t or won’t protect him,” I interjected. “Or didn’t you hear about the little hostage drama that got played out at the Rendells’ house on Friday?”

“Yeah. I heard about that. A bunch of us went down to the lock-up to get the guy’s autograph. You know, that Jester guy is really funny.”

“I know. I still have bruises from laughing so hard,” I said, right before I slammed down the phone.

Paul Riskoff’s apartment was only two floors below the one that I’d been foolish enough to buy with Stephen, but as soon as you stepped off the elevator it felt as if you’d landed on a different planet. In the entrance hall a crystal chandelier as big as the Macy’s Christmas tree hung above an erupting fountain, and you had to squint against the glare of all the mirrors.

Riskoff, looking bemused, was waiting for me himself. He was wearing a navy blue blazer with a gold crest on the pocket, gray pants, Gucci loafers, and no socks. Every strand of the dry pompadour with its telltale absence of gray was exactly where he wanted it to be.

“Welcome, neighbor,” he said without irony, extending his hand.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” I said. “I know that your time is very much in demand.”

“Shhh,” he replied with a conspiratorial wink, “or my wife, Tiffany, will hear us and think we’re up to something. The woman has the ears of a bat.”

I wanted to add, “and the IQ, too,” but under the circumstances it seemed mean-spirited. Tiffany Riskoff was the real estate developer’s second wife, and she was nothing if not a tabloid cartoon of the Other Woman, a blond bombshell you could throw the cliché manual at. We’d ridden the elevator together once, I in my jeans and sweatshirt on my way to check up on the construction, she on her way back from shopping in a hot pink Escada suit. She had a Versace bag in one hand and a yappy, useless, powder puff of a dog in the other. I remember what really got to me was that the dog’s toenails were painted exactly the same shade as Tiffany’s.

Without prompting, Riskoff led me into the apartment and gave me the tour, pointing out the highlights— the onyx columns that had come from a castle in Italy, the neo-Romantic frescoes in the guest room, the semi-pornographic carved ivory frieze in the dining room. The ivory was a bit of a no-no, he admitted, sounding like a man who’s used to being forgiven.

He ushered me into a room that looked like it had been decorated from a fire sale at Buckingham Palace. Everything was overstuffed, draped, tasseled, swagged, and smothered with throw pillows. There was a Renoir on one wall and a view of the lake from the window.

“This is my favorite view,” he said, gesturing toward the window, “but then, of course, you’re already familiar with it.”

“Yes. We have the same one upstairs.”

“Is that what you’ve come to see me about? Because if it is, I’m glad for a chance to sit down and settle this thing face-to-face—no bullshit.”

“Actually, I’ve come to talk about something else.”

“What?”

“A business proposition.”

“Oh, I hope you aren’t trying to get me to invest in a limited partnership or buy stock in some hot high-tech company. I have people who do that kind of thing for me—”

“No,” I said. “I’ve come to ask you whether you’re a football fan.”

I worked the phone the whole way back to Lake Forest. First I called the top criminal attorney on my list who showed absolutely no surprise at being asked to represent Jeffrey Rendell—indeed, he acted almost as if he’d been expecting the call. Of course, when I told him that Jeff was in L.A., I thought he was going to have a stroke. I figured I’d let Eiben tell him the rest.

That done I put a call in to Jeff and ended up leaving another message. Let him enjoy his golf, I thought to myself. Who knows when he’ll get to play again? After that I checked my voice mail at home and back at the office. Someone from the mayor’s office had left word at Callahan Ross that he was willing to sit down and meet with me early Tuesday. Whatever ended up happening, we were going to be cutting it close.

After I finished listening, I transferred over to Sherman Whitehead’s line and found him, as usual, at his desk. I told him to draw up a power of attorney transferring control of the Monarchs from Jeff to Chrissy and to hold on to it. I figured that if Eiben made good on his threat to put Jeff behind bars, we’d better have someone on the outside who was empowered to make decisions for the team, but I didn’t want Sherman faxing it out to California until I had a chance to explain to Jeff what was going on. The way I figured it, he was already in for enough nasty surprises.

For the rest of the drive, I gave myself over to the not inconsiderable pleasures of driving the Jaguar. It wasn’t so much the big things as the luxury of the simple ones; the fact that it still had a radio that worked or that every encounter with a pothole didn’t cost me another piece of the undercarriage. I remember thinking that I could get used to this.

When I got back to my parents’ house, I found Chrissy curled up on the couch in my father’s study, the room in the house that constituted his only sanctuary from my mother. It was the place where he came to drink, smoke cigars, and scratch himself where it itched.

Chrissy was nursing a bottle of Evian water and watching the NFL pregame show on TV. She had the same look on her face that you see on onlookers at a four-car pileup.

“Where’s the baby?” I asked, opening up the armoire that hid the bar and pulling out a cold can of Coors from the little refrigerator that was concealed there.

“She’s sleeping,” she replied distractedly, her eyes glued to the tube. “Mrs. Mason’s up there with her in case she wakes up.”

“Have you heard from Jeff?”

“No, and I hope to god he’s still out on the golf course.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want him to see this.”

“What is it?”

“They’re showing the demonstrations outside the stadium in Milwaukee. Mayor Deutsch is there. He made a campaign appearance eating turkey legs with the King and his fucking court,” continued Chrissy, her voice trembling with anger. “The Jester was there.”

“They let him out already?”

“Apparently. But that’s not even the worst part. There are all these guys holding up homemade stop signs that say ‘Stop Jeff.’ Oh, and look,” she continued, pointing to the TV, “they’re showing the electric chair again.”

I came over and sat down beside Chrissy. On the screen there was indeed a mock-up of an electric chair. In it was strapped a dummy with horn-rimmed glasses, meant to be Jeff.

“Turn it off,” I said. “I have to talk to you.” Chrissy picked up the remote and pushed the button. “The police called me at the office this morning. They have a warrant to arrest Jeff.”

“Oh my god!” she sobbed with a sharp intake of breath. Other than that, her body was immobile, like the split second after you’ve been hit in the face and you still can’t believe you’ve actually been struck.

There was a discreet knock on the study door.

“Come in,” I called out, reaching across to Chrissy and giving her hand a quick squeeze. One of the maids apologized for disturbing us. “There are two policemen at the front door who say that they have to see Mrs. Rendell.”

Chrissy said nothing, but her eyes were as round as saucers.

“Don’t worry,” I said, suddenly wishing that my breath didn’t smell like beer. “You stay here. I’ll take care of this.”

I made my way quickly to the front of the house where two uniformed Lake Forest police officers waited respectfully, hat in hand.

“Mrs. Rendell?” one of them asked.

“No. I’m Kate Millholland. I’m Mrs. Rendell’s attorney. What can I do for you officers?”

“We have some news for Mrs. Rendell. Is she here? May we speak to her?”

“What kind of news?” asked Chrissy softly, appearing at my side.

“Are you Christine Rendell?” he asked, stepping forward.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He consulted the small notebook he carried in his hand. “Are you married to a Jeffrey Rendell of 1783 Lake Drive, Milwaukee, Wisconsin?”

“Yes,” she whispered, this time so softly you had to strain to hear her.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but there’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” I cut in.

“Mr. Rendell has been shot.”

“Shot?” demanded Chrissy, her voice rising in hysteria. “Shot dead?”

“No, ma’am. He’s not dead as far as we know. But apparently he’s been badly wounded. That’s why the Milwaukee police requested our assistance in contacting you.”

“Where was he shot?” I demanded.

“I don’t exactly know. From what they told us he might have been hit in a couple of places. He’s in surgery last we heard.”

“No,” I protested. “Where did it happen? Was he in his hotel? In the car?”

The officer consulted his notebook before replying. “They found him at the home of a Mr. Beauregard Rendell in a town called River Hills. The local authorities think that he must have surprised a burglar.”

“His father’s house?” demanded Chrissy. “That’s not possible. My husband’s in L.A.!”

CHAPTER 20

Even in the Jaguar the drive was an agony—a kind of interstate Le Mans filled with near misses of triple-trailer semis and close encounters with terrified old people who pulled over onto the shoulder and clutched their steering wheels as we screamed past. I don’t think I dropped below ninety except to pay tolls and even then it was very definitely a drive-by kind of thing.

Chrissy seemed oblivious to the danger. With the baby safe in Mrs. Mason’s care back in Lake Forest, her mind was free to imagine the very worst. She alternated between crying and calling the hospital every few minutes, but the news was always the same. Jeff was still in surgery. For Chrissy this was reassuring, but I knew better. If Jeff had died on the operating table, it’s the last thing they would have told Chrissy over the phone. Jeff might still be in surgery, but if he’d already stopped breathing, the surgeons who worked on him were probably drawing straws to decide who would get the unpleasant task of breaking the news to the family.